J. H. Merle D'Aubigné - History of the Reformation in Europe in the Time of Calvin (Vol. 1-8)

When they heard this loyal and generous letter, the people were enraptured. The Swiss themselves were stretching out their hands to them. The joy was universal; there was a cry for the offer of these noble confederates to be put to the vote. Montyon, the mameluke syndic, was alarmed; he was taken unawares; that immense affair against which the bishop and Savoy were uniting their forces was about to be carried as if by storm. Even the patriotic Vandel was intimidated, and proposed that they should proceed immediately to the election of the syndics conformably to the order of the day. It was too late. Since the 22nd of December, Berthelier and his friends had displayed unwearied activity: in six weeks the huguenot party had made immense progress. Desire, hope, and joy animated the citizens. Another feeling, however, was mingled with this enthusiasm, and it was indignation. The ambassadors of Savoy had insinuated, it will be remembered, that Geneva would have to pay tribute to Friburg. ‘Where are those famous gold florins, with which they frightened us?’ said the citizens. ‘The duke who is only a civil officer among us, in his desire to become prince, condescends to vile falsehoods in order that he may succeed!’ ... From every quarter rose the cry: ‘A poll, a poll! citizenship with Friburg! A poll, a poll!’ As the two first syndics obstinately refused, Hugues remembered that there are moments when audacity alone can save a people. He laid aside his habitual scruples, and acting solely on his own responsibility, he proposed the alliance. ‘Yes, yes,’ replied the majority of the assembly with uplifted hands. A few mamelukes, surprised, disconcerted, and disheartened, remained silent and still. 196

Thus, at the very moment when the court of Turin was expressing its discontent at the acquittal of Berthelier, the people replied by a resolution which threatened still more the ambitious designs of Savoy. The citizens of Geneva opened their gates to the Swiss. By turning their backs on the south, they forsook despotism and popery; by turning towards the north, they invited liberty and truth.

The nomination of the syndics, which came next, seemed to confirm this solemn vote: it was the most huguenot election ever known. Three of the new syndics were devoted partisans of independence, namely, Stephen de la Mare, a connection of the Gingins, who had accompanied Hugues to Friburg; John Baud, Hugues’ brother-in-law; and Louis Plongeon, seignior of Bellerive. Guiges Prévost, the premier syndic, had indeed very close relations with the ducal party, but he was a man of good intentions. Many old councillors had to make way for devoted patriots. Geneva was beginning to soar: it desired to be free. Ambassadors set off immediately to announce to Friburg that the people had voted the alliance. 197

Then burst forth one of those great transports that come over a whole nation, when after many struggles it catches a glimpse of liberty. In all the city there were bonfires, cheering, songs, processions, and banquets. But here and there, in the midst of this great joy, there were gloomy faces to be seen; the mamelukes strove in vain to keep down their anger; it broke out suddenly in insults and riots. The reaction was indeed prompt: in the presence of the simple joy of the people, the duke’s friends drew closer together, and their party was organised. The house of Savoy had still many adherents in Geneva, capable of opposing the desire for independence and truth. There were old Savoyard families devoted to the duke; persons who were sold to him; young men of birth, enthusiasts of absolute power; priests and laymen enamoured of Rome; traders averse to a war that would injure their business; weak men, trembling at the least commotion, and many low people without occupation, who are easily excited to riot. The party felt the necessity of calculating their strength and coming to some understanding; but it was not its most prominent leaders who placed themselves in the front. Francis Cartelier, a native of Bresse, and syndic in 1516, a lettered, prudent, and cunning but mean man, convened its principal members in a room at the convent of Rive, which was called ‘the little stove.’ Thither came in succession, besides Montyon and Nergaz, whom we know already, other mamelukes young and full of zeal: Messieurs de Brandis, who were at the head of Genevan society; the two De Fernex, who derived their name from a lordship which became famous in after years; Marin de Versonex, whose family was distinguished by its good works, a young man of limited understanding but ardent imagination, of a disposition easily led away, and passionately devoted to the Church of Rome, which alone he thought able to save him; by his side was his cousin Percival de Pesmes, united to him by a sincere friendship, and whose ancestors had been among the crusading barons who followed St. Louis; lastly, many other noble mamelukes, determined to oppose even to death the triumph of the party of liberty and Switzerland. These old magistrates and these young nobles found themselves out of their element in Geneva. Sincere for the most part in their convictions, they believed they saw in the new day that was rising over the world, a day of tempest which destroying what existed would put nothing in its place. What must be done to avert so dire a misfortune? They resolved to inform the duke of the alliance which had just been voted, and urge him to make every exertion to prevent its being carried out. 198

All these efforts were to prove useless. Liberty was beginning to raise her head in one of the smallest but most ancient cities of the Empire and the Church. It is a strange thing that the city bearing on its flag the symbols of these two absolute powers—the key of the popes and the eagle of the emperors—raised this very significant banner, and thus proclaimed, as if in a spirit of contradiction, liberty in Church and State. While other nations (if we except the Swiss League) were sleeping under the feudal sceptre of their masters, this little republic in the centre of Europe was awaking. Like a dead man lying in a vast cemetery, it began to stir and alone came forth triumphant from its tomb. In all the neighbouring countries, in Switzerland, Savoy, France, and places more remote, people talked of the strange movements taking place at Geneva, and of the daring resistance opposed by a few energetic citizens to a prince who was brother-in-law to Charles V. and uncle to Francis I. Men of the old times grew alarmed. True, it was but a cloud, small as a man’s hand, but it might grow into a fierce tempest in which the two ancient buttresses of feudal and Roman society—absolute power in spiritual and in temporal matters—might be shattered. What would happen then? Might not this emancipatory movement extend through Europe? At Geneva men talked of political liberty; at Wittemberg of religious reform: if these two streams should chance to unite, they would make a formidable torrent which would throw down the edifice of the dark ages and sweep away its ruins into the great abyss. ‘People spoke everywhere,’ Bonivard tells us, ‘of huguenots and mamelukes, as they once did of Guelfs and Ghibelines.’ The prior of St. Victor, to whom these things were reported, reflected on them and said in his musings: ‘Geneva is beginning to be a member in the body of christendom of which strange things are said.’ In examining them, however, he thought there was room for abatement both of hopes and fears:—‘Fame, as Virgil sings, is a goddess who makes things greater than they are.’ 199These things were greater than Bonivard thought. Geneva, by setting out in search of liberty, was to find the Gospel.

The duke, the count, and the bishop, informed successively by their ambassadors, the vidame, and lastly by the mamelukes of ‘the little stove,’ ‘drank of these bitter waters’ and asked themselves if they were going to lose that city from which the house of Savoy had derived such great profit for centuries. They began to understand the imprudence of their rough policy; they began to regret the arrests and the murders; they would have liked that ‘the work was to be done over again.’ That seemed difficult; yet after many conferences, the three princes agreed upon certain plans, one or other of which they thought must succeed.